


The Right Eye

by jeoseung



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Coming of Age, M/M, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-19
Updated: 2020-10-26
Packaged: 2021-03-06 01:41:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,529
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25995403
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jeoseung/pseuds/jeoseung
Summary: Estinien Wrymblood, legendary wielder of Nidhogg's left eye, always stood at the forefront of praise. His skills were well known to the realm, and his rise through the ranks nothing short of meteoric. He was, without a doubt, the greatest Azure Dragoon since Haldrath himself, destined since birth from greatness.But an eye is never complete without its other.
Relationships: Aymeric de Borel/Estinien Wyrmblood
Comments: 8
Kudos: 27





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, thanks for checking this story out. This is meant to be an Aymeric-centric coming-of-age story focusing on his and Estinien's relationship from their time as Temple Knights. This will be a slow burn. 
> 
> This is a small project for me during quarantine, however with some other responsibilities starting for me, I cannot promise regular updates. I am hoping I will be able to put out new content without too much time in between. 
> 
> I've rated it M for now, but if I ever put in any explicit/graphic scenes (this is still debatable at the moment), this rating will go up to E. 
> 
> I hope you are all doing well during these times. If you would like to contact me, please feel free to message me on my personal Tumblr, thevsn.

“De Borel! De Borel! By the _Fury_ , Borel, if you’re dead, I swear—damn!”

With a mighty yank at his scruff, Aymeric jerks awake just as the air rings with an ear-splitting, terrible scream. Aymeric chokes out his shock as a plume of white-hot flames erupts from the sky and scorches the earth where he had been moments ago. He could feel the blistering heat pricking his cheeks.

As fast as the fire appeared, however, it disappeared just as fast. Hastily, Aymeric looks upwards to find a single dragon roar and beat its great, leathery wings to ascend into the sky before circling, preparing for its next attack. Aymeric feels his heartbeat pick up speed. _A dragon._ He’s never seen one before—not one this close, certainly—and now his life is at stake! He’s suddenly acutely aware of a sharp ringing in his temple, and his shield arm is throbbing.

 _His shield._ Where is his shield? Frantically, Aymeric casts his gaze over the landscape, but cannot see anything through the smoke.

“Back among the living are we?” a voice says dryly. “And not a moment too soon, I’d say.” Abruptly, the grip on the back of his mail disappears, and Aymeric falls back into the snow with a yelp. He frowns as he sits up, then jumps as his shield is unceremoniously dropped between his outstretched legs. He takes a moment to inspect the damage—blackened with scorch marks, but the metal still holding thanks to the spells casted on it—before glancing up.

Standing over him, with fine, long, white hair whipping in the wind, is Estinien. His mouth is set in a severe frown, and his brows are furrowed, but there is a fire in his eyes that Aymeric is not sure he’s ever seen before.

“By the Fury, De Borel, get a hold of yourself,” Estinien practically snorts.

“I—yes, of course,” Aymeric blinks and shakes his head in a vain attempt to rid of the ringing in his ears. “Forgive me, I—”

Estinien audibly clicks his tongue and seizes the underside of Aymeric’s arm. “By the Fury,” he says as he pulls Aymeric to his feet. “I need you to _focus_ , De Borel.” As if on cue, another piercing scream echoes through the sky. Grimly, Aymeric straightens and nods.

“You’re right,” he says. “The others?”

“Dead.” Estinien’s delivery is direct and to the point, and the news appropriately hits Aymeric like a punch in the gut. _Dead?_ It’s Aymeric’s responsibility to protect them! Where are their bodies? What will he tell their families?

“Borel!” Estinien shouts as he hefts his spear in his hand. “Are you with me or not? The beast is coming around!”

Aymeric looks at Estinien, then, and sees that same spark he noticed before: a furious, righteous light that at last brings Aymeric back to reality. There is nothing to be done for their comrades now, but Aymeric’s duty to protect Estinien remains.

The dragon roars again, closer now than before, and this time, Aymeric steps in front of Estinien, shield up. “I’ll cover you. Find your opportunity to strike it down!”

“ _At last_ ,” Estinien says into Aymeric’s ear, voice full of anticipation.

The dragon begins to round on them just as Estinien puts a hand on Aymeric’s shoulder and crouches behind him. The speed at which it approached is almost unbelievable to Aymeric—how can a creature so large move with such agility? In seconds, its shadow looms over them, and it opens its monstrous maw. It’s so close, Aymeric can see the tell-tale glow at the back of its throat as it prepares its attack.

“Here it comes!” he shouts and ducks behind the shield.

Not a moment later, white-hot flames rain down upon them. Despite Ishgard’s frigidity, he immediately breaks into sweat. The heat is engulfing—almost suffocating—and the pure pressure of the blast itself threatens to dislocate Aymeric’s shoulder. It’s all he can do to stay conscious enough to keep the shield erect—but his resolve is bolstered with the knowledge he’s already failed once. He will not fail again.

Thankfully, Aymeric as well as the magic on the shield hold. What feels like eons ends in but seconds, and the beast’s flames relent at last. Aymeric pants and grunts as he lowers his shield and reaches for his sword still sheathed at his hip. Perhaps he can get a good strike in before—

Suddenly, Aymeric feels a weight alight on his shoulder, then leave just as quickly. Soon after, having pushed off of Aymeric, Estinien reenters his vision with his spear aloft and vaulting straight towards the dragon. For a moment, as Estinien floats in the air, time seems to suspend. His armor glitters underneath the cold Ishgardian sun, and his body itself seems likened to a weapon, deadly and carefully constructed.

Then, without ceremony, without so much as a battle cry, Estinien brings down his spear.

The wyrm had already been starting its ascent, so Estinien did not strike it in the head or the neck, where doubtless he had been aiming, but he did snag its leathery wings. With a ripping sound, the spear cuts through the dragon’s wing in its entirety, leaving the remains flapping like torn sheets hanging from the bone. The dragon screams and beats its remaining wing, but to no avail. It manages to create some space between it and them, but eventually it crashes some distance away—easily in walking distance for them to finish the job.

Meanwhile, Estinien alights back onto the ground, no worse for wear. His gaze is nothing short of predatory as he stalks towards the creature, which is now screeching and flapping its remaining wing from the ground. It reminds Aymeric like a bird with a crumpled wing as it writhes and squirms. To reduce a beast like a dragon into such a state…Aymeric knew well that Estinien outpaces him—and, indeed, much (if not all) of the Temple Knights—but he did not realize how great the gap really is until now.

Estinien has already traveled half the distance before Aymeric realizes he’s been left behind. Aymeric hastens to catch up. By the time he’s arrived, the dragon’s thrashes have reduced to weak squirms, and Estinien circles the beast with his spear. He tears through the second wing for good measure, then begins to stab it in various places as he moves: its flank, its shoulder, its belly. It cries out in rage and agony at each one and snaps out with its teeth and claws, but Estinien jumps away each time.

“For _Sigisbert_ ,” Estinien practically snarls with each stab. Blood splatters and colors the pure snow underfoot. “For _Degenhard_ , and for _Renaud, beast_.” Aymeric blinks. These are names of members of their patrol that just perished. He had not realized Estinien cared so much about them to react like this—or truly knew their names, for that matter, aloof as he is.

Estinien raises his arm for another strike when Aymeric puts a hand on his shoulder. “Estinien,” he entreats, “enough.”

“Oh, _what?_ ” Estinien snorts and snaps around to glare, eyes burning with fury and grief in equal measure. “Would you prefer I show the creature _mercy?_ After what it’s done? What they’ve _all_ done?”

“Some basic decency, perhaps,” Aymeric suggests quietly. “Come, Estinien, the beast is defeated and the battle won. Why prolong its suffering?”

“‘ _Suffering_ ’,” Estinien repeats scornfully. “You speak of _suffering_? What of _our_ suffering?” Now he rounds his spear tip to Aymeric’s chin, but Aymeric does not flinch. “For generations, the dragons have plagued us day and night without cease! You should know what they’ve taken from us! Why should I show them any measure of respite? Any _ilm_ of sympathy? Did it show us any decency? Our comrades? This is naught but a _beast_ , a monster!”

“Aye,” Aymeric agrees, “but _we_ are not beasts, my friend.”

Estinien’s expression remains stony, but after a few moments, he lets out a _hmph_. Then, in one artful and vicious motion, he spins around and brings down the full weight of his spear into the dragon’s eye.

The dragon lets out a final scream and, despite its wounds, thrashes with renewed vigor in the face of death. Its voice sounds through the bare white landscape and pounds against Aymeric’s already aching head. Despite this last burst of defiance, however, it at long last slumps, dead. Wordlessly, Estinien wrenches out his spear and flicks off the excess blood onto the snow.

“Well,” Aymeric says after a moment of silence, “I believe congratulations are in order. I am assuming this is your first dragon kill? Very well deserved, if I may presume to say so. Your skills are impressive—much more so than even what I have heard.”

Estinien gives another lighter snort, apparently unmoved by the compliments. “ _Our_ kill” is all he grunts, and Aymeric feels his chest swell. Then, Estinien looks up, eyes dark. “And the first of many.” It is more than a promise. It’s a threat—an omen.

“I have little doubt,” Aymeric replies. “Now come. We must put our friends to rest.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AKA: if you thought 32 year old Estinien was bad, imagine a 20 year old Estinien.
> 
> * * *
> 
> Apologies for the long wait. Some IRL troubles kept me from finishing this part. In lieu of this, the next part may be some time coming, but I am keeping this story in mind, for what it's worth. If you would like to contact me directly, please feel free to message me on my personal tumblr, thevsn.
> 
> I hope you enjoy.

The return to Ishgard is a bittersweet one.

What burned remains of their three comrades are left are melted into their armor. The total weight of it all is far too much for the pair of them to carry back to Ishgard. They do not have shovels, and the snow and frozen earth underneath it is far too hard to be pierced by anything less, so even burying them is out of the question. It is with somber resolve, then, that Aymeric and Estinien abandon the bodies, but take whatever unwarped, unbroken mementos they can: a buckler, a helmet, and a sword. The pair of them pack these trinkets with the greatest reverence and strap the packs tight on their backs. This much, at least, they could do for them. Aymeric winces as he draws his pack across his left shoulder.

“I can take yours, if you’d like,” Estinien offers, sharp eyes missing nothing.

“No,” says Aymeric a hair too quickly. Then he adds, “Thank you. I can manage.”

Estinien considers him a moment before turning to start their trek back.

It is nearly nightfall when they return to Ishgard. Captain Bisset, leader of all squires and organizer of patrol routes, runs out to meet them at the Steps.

“Thank the Fury!” he says in welcome. His fine, brown hair, usually immaculately tied back, is disheveled, as if he had run his hand through it a few too many times. “I was just about to send out a search party for you boys! You should’ve been here hours ago.” Bisset’s sharp gray eyes flicker over their expressions, then, and the way Aymeric’s face twists as he shifts his shoulder. Aymeric can tell Bisset already knows the answer before he even asks the question.

“The others?”

“Dead,” Estinien says—just as bluntly and coldly as he did on the battlefield. It’s no small wonder, Aymeric reflects, that some regard him unfeeling. “A dragon.”

“By the Fury,” Bisset swears. “The blasted beasts are getting more brazen! They never should’ve come _near_ that route…”

Aymeric believes him, especially with the grief filling Bisset’s eyes. He feels just as responsible for the deaths as Aymeric did out in the field.

“It’s no fault of yours, sir,” Aymeric says. “We were all taken by surprise.”

“Thankfully, it was only one,” Estinien grunts. “We were able to fell the beast before it did anymore damage.”

“You _killed it?_ ”

Estinien crosses his arms and scowls, as if challenging Bisset to believe anything less. “What would you have us do instead? Roll over and let the creature take us belly up?”

Bisset shakes his head. “No, of course not, Wyrmblood. It’s just—well, everyone knows your skill, but to defeat a dragon so early in your training is…remarkable, frankly.”

Estinien’s frown grows more pronounced. “My thanks,” he sniffs, and Aymeric on no uncertain terms is sure he is being sarcastic. “But I could not have done it without Borel’s support.”

Bisset now turns to Aymeric, surprise clear on his face. Ayermic tries not to be too put out. “You too, De Borel?”

“Well,” Aymeric smiles and hopes it does not come off as rueful, “only after Wyrmblood woke me up for it.”

Estinien makes a frustrated noise. “He was knocked out after taking the brunt of the first attack for the party. If not for his quick actions, _none_ of us would have lived. It is him I have to thank for my life.”

Bisset finally seems to remember himself. “Forgive me, De Borel,” he says. “I just assumed, given Wyrmblood’s history—but, of course, you are also more than capable, as everyone knows.”

 _Doubtful,_ Aymeric thinks to himself, but he nods anyway. “Think nothing of it, Captain. I only regret I was not able to save the others.”

Bisset shakes his head. “Such is the price of war, my boy. Take heart in your victories, else our losses will naught but weigh us down.” Aymeric inclines his head. “Well then, with that said, there are formalities we must observe. We must notify the families and organize funerals. You’ll have to give your reports, of course—”

“If I may,” Estinien interjects, “I will give the final report. Borel’s shoulder was injured in the fight. I believe he should receive medical attention.”

“Yes, yes, of course. De Borel, off to the medical wing with you.”

“I—” Aymeric is about to protest—there is no need to coddle him—but one look at Estinien’s adamant expression stops the words in his throat. “Thank you, Captain. Wyrmblood.”

After handing off the broken sword he had salvaged, Aymeric leaves Estinien to deal with affairs. He’s already giving his report as Aymeric trudges towards the Congregation. The medical wing is fairly empty by the time he arrives, although there are a few people sitting in beds being healed by magic. An aide looks up as Aymeric crosses the threshold.

“How may I help you?” he asks as he rises. He gestures Aymeric follow him to an open bed.

“I hurt my shoulder,” Aymeric says as sits on the soft mattress and gingerly pulls off his pack. He audibly winces as the strap passes over his shoulder. He doesn’t even dare try to take off his cloak by himself. Thankfully, the aide steps forward and carefully undoes the clasp at Aymeric’s chin and sweeps off the cloak. He begins removing Aymeric’s pauldrons as he asks, “Doing what?”

“Dragon,” Aymeric curtly through grit teeth at the jostling at his shoulder.

“Burns?” asks the aide as he sets down the pauldrons, then reaches for Aymeric’s sides to unbuckle his breastplate. His tone is practical and his fingers practiced. “Bleeding?”

“I’m—I’m not sure. Neither, I believe.”

“Can you lift your arm?” the other man prompts once the breastplate is off. Now, all that’s left is Aymeric’s thick sweater underneath. Aymeric sets his jaw and tries to raise his left arm. He hisses as a sharp pain shoots through him immediately.

“It’s alright,” the aide puts up his hands. “If we must, we can cut your sweater off. Can you describe to me what happened?”

“We were attacked by a dragon. I shielded us from its blast—twice, I’ve been told, but I was knocked out cold the first time—and in the process I believe I may have…pulled my shoulder.”

“I venture it is more than a simple pulled muscle,” replies the aide as he rummages through a nearby drawer. “You said you were knocked out? Do you have any pain in your head?”

“No.”

“Sensitivity to light? Disorientation?”

“No. Well, I slight headache, I suppose.”

“Alright. It seems you don’t have a concussion.” The other Elezen pulls out a pair of scissors. “I hope you’re not too attached to that sweater, sir knight.”

A few minutes and a cut up, discarded sweater later, Aymeric is shirtless and staring at the angry purple-red bruises marring his shoulder.

“It must have been some blast you took,” the aide observes. “Does this—”

“Ah!” Aymeric flinches as the aide places a featherlight touch on the injured shoulder. He clicks his tongue.

“I assumed as much. Alright, please lie down, sir. This may take some time. Try not to move your shoulder too much.”

“You don’t need to call me that, by the way,” Aymeric says as he does what he’s told.

“Call you what?”

“Sir,” Aymeric replies. “I’m not a knight, just in training.”

“Really?” The aide’s eyebrows go up into his hair as he pulls up a stool. “Forgive me, I simply assumed—to face a dragon and come away with only this much is a feat, indeed.”

“He had exceptional help.”

Aymeric turns his head just as Estinien strides into view, mouth a thin line, brows downturned—severe as ever. His eyes glance over Aymeric once, assessing the damage, before saying, “All in once piece, then.”

“It would seem so,” Aymeric manages a weak smile. “I did not expect you.”

“The Captain insisted I check myself in for inspection as well,” Estinien snorts derisively, as if the very idea he might be hurt is offensive.

“This may sting,” the aide interrupts as he brings his hands to Aymeric’s shoulder. Presently, his hands light up with the tell-tale glow of magic. There’s a momentary sting, as the aide warned, but it’s not long before feels Aymeric the cool, healing sensation of aetheric wind on his skin. He sinks into the pillows with a small sigh, then looks back at Estinien, who has settled for standing at the foot of the bed and standoffishly crossing his arms.

“Then, at the cost of sounding concerned, I assume you are unharmed?”

Estinien snorts again. “At the absolute pinnacle of health.” He spares another glance at Aymeric’s splotchy shoulder. “Will he recover fully?”

“Yes, I believe so,” replies the aide without looking up from his work. “It may be stiff for a few days—perhaps a week—but with regular stretches and exercise, I do not believe there will be lasting effects.”

Aymeric visibly relaxes. “What a relief,” he sighs. “It would be a shame if my shield arm was rendered useless after meeting but one dragon.”

“Indeed,” Estinien says. “You’ll still have some use, after all.”

Aymeric spares another small smile at that. “And? Did Bisset receive our friends’ effects?”

“He did. He promised a ceremony would be held for them on the morrow. In the evening, most like.”

“That is good.” Aymeric shuts his eyes. “I’ve not an idea how I’ll face their families, however.”

Estinien frowns somewhat. “Did you know them so well?”

“No, I suppose not. But I was responsible for their safety. At the very least, I feel I owe their relatives something.” Aymeric sighs. “Sigisbert had a younger brother. Apparently he idolizes him. The smile Sigisbert had when he spoke of him…”

Estinien is silent.

About half an hour later, Aymeric is released from the medical wing. The bruises on Aymeric’s shoulder are completely gone, as is the pain. Experimentally, he rolls his shoulder. It aches somewhat, and it’s stiff just as the aide said, but otherwise it is as if he was never injured at all. Estinien matches Aymeric stride for stride as they leave.

“I appreciate you staying with me,” Aymeric says. “It was kind of you.”

Estinien’s expression curdles somewhat at the implication—it occurs to Aymeric that none have ever called Estinien “kind” before—but he replies judiciously, “It is the least I could have done, what with your valiant efforts to keep me alive.”

“You’re teasing me,” Aymeric smiles at Estinien’s tone. Estinien only shrugs.

The dining hall is still open when they arrive, although it is, of course, nearly empty at this hour. All that’s left for them are soups, bread, and mead—meat, a luxury as it is, is always the first to run out—but Aymeric gratefully fills a large bowl and piles a plate with buns regardless. His stomach is far too empty to complain. Estinien readily follows suit.

It’s strange to sit at the tables alone. The hall is outfitted with four long, grand wood tables that run from the entrance to the back. It is meant to accommodate not only the squires, but the knights and all commanders, as well. Usually, the air would be humming with conversation. Aymeric is used to hearing tankards being struck together, or laughter occasionally ringing against the vaulted ceiling. Now, there’s only the quiet clinks of their dishes and the muted conversation of the kitchen staff breaking down the buffet.

And what’s strangest of all is to be eating opposite the infamous Estinien Wyrmblood, the most unapproachable man in the entire Temple Knights. Aymeric glances up from his soup to watch Estinien eat with zeal, tearing into his bread with his teeth and foregoing his spoon to drink his soup directly from the bowl. He catches Aymeric’s eye after he puts it down and raises a single, fine eyebrow. Aymeric feels himself blush and returns his gaze to his own food.

“Tell me more of Sigisbert’s brother,” Estinien says suddenly. Aymeric looks up to find Estinien with his arms crossed and staring at him expectantly.

“He’s much younger than us. I believe Sigisbert said he was twelve years younger than him, so he must be about ten and four.” Aymeric sits back a little, small smile forming on his face. “Sigisbert’s mother died when he was but a child, and his younger brother is a product of his father’s second marriage. Sigisbert spoke of his little brother with the greatest fondness.” He tilts his head as he continues, “His brother has a talent for singing, so he told me. ‘A natural’, I believe Sigisbert said.”

“What of the other?” Estinien asks.

“Others?”

“Degenhard and Renaud.”

Aymeric gives a bemused blink. “Renaud has a twin sister who is also among the Knights. I believe she is training to be a dragoon, like yourself.” Then he grins. "He had a bit of a penchant for sweets, as I recall. He’d been caught with extra desserts more than once.

“As for Degenhard, I was not close to him, but I hear he was to be married in a moon.” His smile fades as he shakes his head. “I can’t even begin to imagine his beloved’s grief.” Aymeric rests his elbows on the table and holds his face in his hands. How will he look this maiden in the eye and tell her he is the one that failed to protect her betrothed?

“I did not know them.”

Aymeric looks up. “I’m sorry?”

Estinien’s brows are furrowed. He looks surly, perhaps even haughty, but Aymeric spots the frustration in his eyes. “I did not know them. I have never made it my business to familiarize myself with anyone. If it does not further my ends, I see no point.”

Aymeric’s not sure what to say. “I see.”

“Still, to be beside them when they died and know nothing about them with their funerals on the morrow does not seem right.” Estinien pauses before grunting, “I am the last to see them alive. It is only right that I carry pieces of who they are, however small.”

“I understand. I’d be happy to continue to regale you, if you’d like to know more.”

Estinien considers Aymeric.

“What?”

Estinien’s eyes flicker over him. “You should know that if you are at fault for protecting them, then as much of the blame falls on me.”

Aymeric opens his mouth to protest, but Estinien continues, “If you are the shield that did not defend them, then I am the spear that did not save them. I was slow to react to the dragon attack. I had an opening and I did not take it. Their deaths are as much my responsibility as they are yours.”

“Estinien, I appreciate that, but it is I alone who held the responsibility to protect and safeguard to enable _you_ to make use of those openings. There’s no need for you to—”

“Self-imposed martyrdom tires me,” Estinien snaps. “Will you wallow for every man and woman that falls before you? Because there will be many more.”

At this, Aymeric frowns. “And what? You would have me throw their lives away? Dismiss their sacrifice? Such _callousness_ tires _me_. Why is it so expected to be numb to the price of war? We have been at war for nigh a _thousand years_. Have we been entrenched in battle for so long that we no longer value life? Starting from when was death the _expectation_ at our age, not tragedy?”

Estinien eyes are searching. “What would you do, then?”

“What?”

“What would you _do_?” Estinien repeats impatiently. “It is easy to criticize, but few people _act_. You have a problem, so I ask you: what are you going to _do_ about it?”

Aymeric hesitates for a hairsbreadth before replying, “I would end this war.”

Now Estinien barks out a laugh—derisive and wholly bitter. “A bold claim,” he says dryly, smile more a sneer.

“You don’t believe me.”

“Indeed,” Estinien snorts. “If you were tiring me before, now you absolutely _bore_ me. I thought I saw something of merit out in that field. Evidently, I was mistaken. You’re as foolhardy as the rest of them.”

Aymeirc had never been the target of one of Estinien’s infamous frigid gazes, but he recognizes it instantly now. Estinien is regarding him with absolute and utter disappointment—even bordering on disgust. It looks as if Estinien cannot wait to get out of this conversation as quickly as possible. Aymeric wouldn’t be surprised if Estinien stood up and left in the middle of it.

Still, Aymeric is not deterred. “The war has ravaged Ishgard. You must agree with this. It has become so normal that some have forgotten what it is that we are fighting for and live comfortably. _Status_ has become equivalent to honor, not merit. And while the main houses sleep with full bellies, it is the commonfolk that starve and whose homes are the first to be destroyed by dragon sieges. It is only those with the highest power that benefit from the Dragonsong campaign. Meanwhile, the rest suffer.”

Estinien shrugs. “The enmity between the commonfolk and nobility is no secret.”

“But instead of Ishgard and her citizens being forefront, we instead spend all our resources in a war with no end in sight. Would you not agree this is unsustainable? For how long can Ishgard and her people go on?”

Estinien frowns. “So what? What can you do to change this? Will you be the one striking down Nidhogg himself? Will you be a champion for the commonfolk, campaigning against the high houses? People before you have tried these things already, and they have failed. Your notions are hardly revolutionary. Ishgard is the way it is for a reason: change is easy to talk about and hard to come by. So, again, what will you _do_ that will be so different?”

Aymeric swallows before saying, “I intend to be Lord Commander.” Stubbornly, he sets his jaw and crosses his arms, prepared for mockery akin to before. Instead, Estinien blinks, as if genuinely taken aback. His consequent look is not exactly hostile, but very intense. He seems to be gauging how insane Aymeric is.

“You are not highborn.” It’s more of a question than a statement, and put more politely than others have said. Estinien sounds genuinely confused—even hesitant, as if he’s not sure if he’s wrong.

“No,” Aymeric admits. “But that’s never stopped me before.”

“Yes, but you’re hardly in a position of merit. You’re a squire. And the Lord Commander’s seat isn’t _earned_ ,” Estinien presses. “It’s _given_. To _nobility_.”

“Yes, isn’t that strange? That the highest seat of military is not bestowed on merit?” Aymeric smiles demurely.

“So what? That’s how it is.” When Aymeric does not reply, Estinien scoffs. “So what, you will be the first? In _history_?”

“Yes.” Aymeric meets Estinien’s gaze. “I will. I will have so much repute, so much merit, so much qualification that they _can’t_ refuse to give me the seat. And then I will use my position to end the war, however that may be, and then I will rebuild Ishgard into a kingdom of peace.”

Estinien holds Aymeric’s look for what feels like eons. Aymeric is not sure how long the pair of them sat there staring at each other, the sounds of the staff cleaning up around them.

“You are rather ambitious,” Estinien observes quietly, “for one your age.”

Despite himself, Aymeric actually chuckles. “Aren’t we the same age?”

“Some would call you foolish.”

“More than some, friend,” Aymeric smiles wanly, “and they call me much worse.”

Estinien stares at him for a moment longer. Then he sits back and says, “Do not let their deaths weigh down your shoulders. Rather, let them raise your chin. Look towards the new day with pride—if not for you, then for them.”

Aymeric blinks at both the sudden change in topic and Estinien’s words. This sounds like wisdom from someone beyond both their years, and it is spoken with such gravity that Aymeric cannot help but believe Estinien.

“In any case, I am hardly in a place to criticize lofty ambitions, what with mine own. However”—and here, while Estinien’s tone is still casual, his eyes adopt a pure, cold fury—“make no mistake: the final blow that ends this war will be _mine_. It will be _my_ spear through Nidhogg’s pitiful, putrid, final eye. I will not accept anyone getting in the way of _my_ goal.”

“I’ve no particular ambition to slay Nidhogg, I assure you. The glory is all yours.”

Estinien snorts. “ _Please_. As if something as banal as _glory_ interests me.” But, apparently satisfied with Aymeric’s answer, he returns to his food.

Briefly, Aymeric wonders what Estinien had meant. Every boy and girl who wanted to be a knight spoke of being the legendary hero to strike down Nidhogg and end the war. He simply assumed Estinien wanted the same. Yet the look in his eyes held not challenge, but unflinching promise: Estinien would not _accept_ anyone else landing the finishing blow on Nidhogg. The one slaying the beast would be _him_.

 _What has he seen?_ Aymeric thinks to himself.

Estinien jolts Aymeric out of his reverie by sharply placing his empty mug on the table. “I believe they’re about to kick us out,” he says. “And it’s just as well; this past day of activity has caught up to me.” Abruptly, Estinien rises. Unbidden, Aymeric scrambles to rise as well.

“Good night,” Estinien says as he picks up his dishes and leaves the table. Aymeric watches him hand off the plates to the nearest staff member before exiting through the great double doors and disappearing down the hall. He does not spare so much as a single glance back.

“Good night,” Aymeric finds himself saying into the empty air.

* * *

The funerals are held late afternoon, as the sun is setting and the sky itself looks as if it is bleeding for the occasion. Aymeric sits in the pews second from the front, directly behind a fair young woman weeping into a handkerchief. An older man, likely her father, has an arm around her delicate shoulders and is murmuring into her ear. Aymeric has the sinking feeling this woman is Degenhard’s fiancée. He swallows hard, looks into his lap, and tries to tune out her tears— _like a coward,_ he thinks to himself bitterly. Estinien might have entreated Aymeric to shoulder their comrades’ last moments of life with pride, but hearing Degenhard’s fiancée cry is quickly wearing away at his resolve. He hasn’t even spoken to her yet. Just thinking about it fills his heart with dread.

Someone clears his throat at Aymeric’s side. He starts and looks up to find Estinien nodding towards the empty space next to him. “The seat is not taken, I presume?”

“No,” Aymeric says and rises hastily to let Estinien through.

“You look terrible,” Estinien murmurs once they sit. Aymeric finds himself holding back a laugh despite it all.

“Are you well?” Estinien asks, leaning towards him a little to speak into Aymeric’s ear.

“As can be expected, I suppose,” Aymeric gives a soft sigh. “Yourself?”

Estinien simply shrugs.

Presently, the priest appears at the altar and the congregation falls to a hush. The priest begins his introductory rites, but Aymeric cannot paying attention. While the young woman has stifled her crying, her shoulders are still shaking.

Estinien bumps his knee a fraction of a second before the congregation all rises. Aymeric, having missed the actual cue from the priest, hastily follows suit. He shoots Estinien a half-grateful, half-sheepish glance. Soon after, the grand doors of the church are thrown open, and Temple Knights escorting the caskets process inside.

The Temple Knights are dressed in full armor, and there are four for each of the three caskets. They are held up with the greatest reverence despite their hollowness—there are, of course, no bodies to bury. Regardless, the Church provides ornately decorated coffins for the fallen, and especially ones for those fallen in combat. As defenders of Ishgard fallen in battle, no expense is spared. The brightly polished wood shines underneath the light streaming through the stained glass windows, and its gold finishings glitter. It is said Halone Herself would greet them at the Gates as exalted, celebrated warriors. The priest is saying as much as the knights approach and lay out the caskets in the front of the nave. Their deaths are of the highest order, the pinnacle of honor, the greatest of glories.

 _Is that all their lives amount to?_ Is that all they can look forward to: dying spectacularly and honorably in battle for a war with no end in sight? Should those left alive simply be satisfied that their loved ones died with honor?

Degenhard’s fiancée is still trembling in front of Aymeric. Behind him, a child wails. The priest calls for all to participate in song and prayer.

The mass takes more than an hour. The priest blesses and says individual prayers over each casket. Then, the Temple Knights return to take the caskets and lead the congregation outside. The familiar chill of Ishgard follows their somber procession from the Vault. Above, the cathedral bells toll together to announce their coming through the city. In silence, their congregation follows the priest, Temple Knights, and the caskets from the Pillars all the way through the Foundation to the Gates. Citizens move out of their way, bow their heads, and offer soft prayers as they pass.

After crossing the Steps of Faith, they walk east towards Ishgard’s grave site. The thousands of gray-white headstones silently greet them as they approach, stretching on and on farther than the eye can see. Aymeric’s heart tightens just at the sight. He had never had to come to the grave site personally before. To see how much death has plagued Ishgard nearly makes him fall to his knees. How many of these graves are for young men and women whose lives were stolen by war? How many families lie here together?

There are three graves already prepared, all next to one another. The priest says his final prayers as each casket is carefully lowered into their place. Degenhard’s fiancée is openly weeping again in front of the first grave. A young boy that Aymeric recognizes as Sigisbert’s younger brother squirms in his mother’s arms and bawls as his family looks over the second. At the third is a lone woman, dressed in full armor and blonde hair whipping in the freezing wind. Aymeric does not know her, but the curve of her nose and the set of her jaw is unmistakably the same as Renaud. He watches her as she places a single gloved hand on his headstone, but she sheds no tears.

Eventually, the funeral finishes, and the group, eager to get out of the cold, return to Ishgard’s Aetheryte Plaza. Here, Captain Bisset encourages the families for one last night to reminisce together at the Forgotten Knight. As he corrals the patrol squad’s relatives towards the tavern, he throws a pointed look over his shoulder at Estinien and Aymeric. _You too._ Estinien’s nostrils flare for a moment, but he follows the group regardless. Aymeric hesitates a fraction of a second before falling in step beside him.

Aymeric had been dreading sitting next to one of the fallen’s loved ones, but thankfully he ends up between a wall and Bisset as they take their seats on the upper floors of the Knight. Estinien takes the seat directly across from Aymeric, next to Renaud’s sister. She nods to them as they do so—acknowledgment from a fellow knight-in-training.

Bisset takes it upon himself to order a round of drinks for everyone. When the tankards come, he raises his in a toast.

“Renaud, Degenhard, and Sigisbert,” he says solemnly. “May you live on in the halls of Halone.”

Aymeric and the rest of the table murmur their agreements and drink. Bisset engages Sigisbert’s father as he sits back down, and the rest of the table breaks into many quiet conversations. Aymeric, Estinien, and Renaud’s sister sit quietly for a while, nursing their drinks.

The evening slowly crawls on. Aymeric has nearly emptied his cup. He is considering ordering another—if only to have something to preoccupy him until the group breaks—when someone asks him, “You were with him, weren’t you?”

Aymeric feels his heart leap. He looks up. “I’m sorry?” he asks. His voice does not sound as steady as he would like.

“You were with him,” Renaud’s sister repeats—more a statement now. Her previous faraway eyes are now intense and shiny. A faint flush reddens her cheeks.

Aymeric blinks and swallows the lump in his throat. Vaguely, he is aware that the rest of the table has hushed.

“Yes,” Aymeric says at last. “I was.”

He waits for her to say something, but she instead stays silent. Still, her stare is wordlessly insistent—not angry, but more desperate. Aymeric has the feeling she’s not sure what she’s asking for, either.

“We had never faced a dragon,” Aymeric begins. “We had never _expected_ to face a dragon. I remember we were, at the time, exchanging stories on our way back to Ishgard. Sigisbert mentioned he was going to visit his family. Degenhard saying how excited he was to return to his fiancée’s cooking.”

Down the table, Degenhard’s fiancée in question lets out a small, shattered sound into her handkerchief.

“The attack was…fast. I hardly had time to raise my shield against the first hit.” Aymeric rubs his temple as he tries to recall the memories. It all felt like a blur, as if grasping at water.

“Renaud, Degenhard, and I turned to face the beast on the second attack,” Estinien steps in, and Aymeric is grateful for it. He physically deflates with relief as Estinien continues, “Sigisbert was attempting to rouse Borel. Degenhard was able to hit a few arrows upon it, but it nose-dove us. We were forced to scatter out of the way. I split off with Borel, while the other three went another way.” Here, Aymeric can guess what happens next. Estinien hesitates, for once looking uncertain. He spares a glance at Aymeric (who tries to look as encouraging as possible) before continuing, “The dragon targeted the three of them. Perhaps because it felt taking out more at once would be most prudent. There’s no way to know. In any case, it was quick. It…it took the three of them out, then returned to the air to finish the pair of us. I was able to wake Borel, and the pair of us were able to take it down on its returning strike.” He pauses again. “As you know, there were no remains. We tried to carry their bodies, but the weight was too much. We took what effects we could. They died with honor.”

Estinien is welcomed by silence.

“If I may,” Aymeric clears his throat. “I cannot say I was especially close to any of the three of them. However, I had been on patrols with the three of them at least once or twice before this. There is a certain camaraderie we had, I think, and it not only was an honor to work alongside them, but a privilege. To know that I was with them in their final hours…” Aymeric shakes his head. “For what paltry worth it is, I am sorry they did not come back with us. I know it is little comfort in the face of your loss, but it is what I can offer. And that I will live a life that they would be proud to lead.”

The table is silent still. Aymeric swallows the lump in his throat and fights the urge to look away from the dozens of eyes on him. He wonders if it’s too late to make an escape and hope he never encounters any of these people again.

“We don’t blame you, boy,” Sigisbert’s father finally speaks—a severe looking man with a heavy brow and thick beard. His voice came out impossibly low and gravelly and immediately captures authority. “I don’t, at least. All Ishgardians know the duty. Knowing my son greeted Halone on the heels of battle with a dragon is all we can ask.”

“But I will hold you to your promise,” Renaud’s sister says, eyes intense. “My brother had many ambitions. Make sure you pursue yours as he would.” _Or else_ lingers unsaid in the air. She turns from Aymeric to Estinien. “You too, Wyrmblood. I will not accept you as a dragoon with anything less.” Estinien inclines his head.

Aymeric feels his heartbeat slow and allows himself to exhale a sigh of relief. Still, while Sigisbert’s family seemed satisfied and Renaud’s sister expressed, in her own way, her approval, Aymeric does not miss how Degenhard’s fiancée remains silent or avoids looking at him. He does not loathe her this. He reminds himself that he is not seeking forgiveness. Rather, he will live so that the lives lost are not for naught—for his own sake, not in some penance to others. Perhaps Degenhard’s fiancée will never forgive him, but Aymeric decides that he can accept this. If this will give her something to cling to in the depths of her grief, then he will fill this role.

A few hours later, the group breaks. The families of the deceased one by one take their leave until eventually it is only Bisset, Estinien, and Aymeric remaining. After taking a final swig from his drink, Bisset grunts, “I think it’s time for me as well to make my way home.”

“Good night, sir,” Aymeric nods as Bisset rises.

Bisset does not immediately leave, however. Instead, he taps the tabletop with his knuckles a few times before clicking his tongue and sitting back down.

“I expect your discretion on this,” Bisset says, “but I think you two have a right to know that I am recommending the pair of you for your knighthoods.”

Aymeric feels his heart leap. “Knighthood?” Aymeric repeats. “But the annual ceremony is not—”

“Squires can be knighted under exceptional cases,” Bisset says, “regardless of when the official ceremony is. And I believe—as I think many of my colleagues will as well—that defeating a dragon as a pair of squires is knightly indeed. Many of the squires that are knighted are lucky to have seen a dragon, much less fight one and come away alive.”

Aymeric, for a moment, doesn’t know what to say. “Thank you, sir,” he finally manages to stammer out.

“Don’t thank me yet,” Bisset raises a hand. “I’ve yet to garner all the support that’s needed. There is still a chance you will have to wait until this year’s ceremony, so don’t get your hopes too high.”

“Understood,” Aymeric nods. “Regardless, I’m grateful you would take the time on our behalves.”

“Think nothing of it. I am your captain, after all.”

With that, Bisset says his goodbyes a second time, leaving Aymeric and Estinien alone at the table. Despite the exciting news, Estinien’s expression remains stoic. He nurses his drink and stares at some point over Aymeric’s shoulder, apparently deep in thought. Unwilling to interrupt him, Aymeric instead perches his chin on his hand and listens to the rancor of patrons in the floor below. He cannot hear what they’re saying exactly, but their bouts of uproarious laughter and the steady hum of lively chatter brings him comfort.

It’s only when Aymeric yawns that Estinien speaks. “Are you planning to stay much longer?”

“I suppose not,” Aymeric replies. “I suppose as long as you will stay—assuming you are open to the company.”

Estinien shrugs.

“I must thank you for your advice, by the way. From yesterday. It seems most of them were satisfied with what I said, and I am grateful to you in turn for what you told me.”

Again, Estinien shrugs, and now he looks away and hides half his face in his tankard. “They will be scrutinizing you, now,” he says. “It seems as if you’ve promised them great things.”

“So I did.”

“You’d do well not to disappoint them,” Estinien says. _Or me,_ his eyes seem to remind.

Aymeric smiles. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

* * *

Word of Aymeric and Estinien’s achievements spread far and quickly through the Temple Knights. Squires and knights both sought Aymeric out to congratulate him. This is bittersweet for him; while many are friends, and still more are those he does not recognize but welcomes, there are some that he knows talk behind his back—children of highborn, primarily, or protégés of such. Individuals whose smiles look more akin to sneers and whose eyes betray their disdain. He always finds interaction with them draining. If they have already decided they will not respect him for his worth, he would rather they would not speak to him at all—but, of course, there’s no avoiding them if he wants to be Lord Commander. Aymeric resigns himself to playing polite when he must and avoiding them otherwise.

By luncheon, Aymeric swears half the Temple Knights have somehow found him. His throat is hoarse from all the conversation he’s had, his back and shoulders (especially his still-healing one) are aching for the amount of times they’ve been clapped, and he’s actually tempted to run back to his quarters until his next training session just for some peace and quiet. But at the rate things are going, he is sure people will notice if he disappears and may perhaps give him more grief for running away. He thus can only hope he can make it through most of his meal uninterrupted.

Aymeric has only just taken a sip of his soup when someone claps his shoulder and roars, “De Borel, you bastard!”

Aymeric chokes a little and tries wipe his chin with a napkin with as much dignity as possible. “Laurentinus,” he clears his throat and manages a smile while he rolls his sore shoulder. “I take it you’ve heard?”

“Heard? _Heard?_ Ha! I wager the whole of the _Knights_ has heard of the two squires that killed a dragon!” Laurentinus collapses in the open seat next to Aymeric, a broad grin on his rugged face. Laurentinus would strike most as roguishly handsome, and was indeed popular during their times as young men in the Brume: a square, strong jaw with a light beard; dark, flyaway hair with a charmingly unkempt air; broad, bold shoulders; and sharp, clever brown eyes that right now are alight with vigor. He might as well have slain the dragon himself.

“Tell me the story, Aymeric. Spare no detail! If you’re going to get the glory without me, then you’ll do me the dignity of regaling me of the full tale!”

Aymeric shrugs. “There’s not much to tell, I’m afraid,” he echoes what he’s been saying all day. “Wyrmblood did most of the work.”

At this, Laurentinus’ nose crinkles. “That stick in the mud? Pfah—it figures he’s involved in this somehow.”

Aymeric smiles and takes a bite of his food. Laurentinus’ general dislike for Estinien is well known—as well as most everyone else. To be fair to Laurentinus, his frustrations are not totally unwarranted; anyone’s attempts at conversation with Estinien are often rebuffed or replied with some smart remark, and his demeanor always comes off as haughty or aloof. Aymeric spent a few days with him now and can tell these observations are not prejudiced either; Aymeric thinks himself a patient conversationalist, and even he had no idea what to make of Estinien at times. While he’s fairly sure Estinien does not actually believe himself superior to others, he certainly has a degree of (warranted) pride, and in combination with his general distaste for other people and his few attempts to mask that, it very much seems like he is incredibly arrogant.

“He’s not as bad as you think,” Aymeric says diplomatically as Laurentinus finishes grumbling. “But hard to approach, I will admit.”

Laurentinus snorts and rolls his eyes. “An understatement. At least his confidence isn’t totally unfounded, for your sake. I take it his skills were useful to you out there?”

“Like I said, he did most of the work. I actually was knocked out for most of it. Not a terribly flattering look for me.”

“You’re too modest,” Laurentinus waves his hand. “I heard you absorbed two direct blasts from the beast. I bet Wyrmblood wouldn’t even be standing to accept the glory if not for you! Admit it, Aymeric: he should be here at your knee thanking the Fury you were there to cover his surly hide!”

“Is that so? The thought never occurred to me.”

Aymeric jumps and looks over his shoulder to find Estinien standing with a plate of food in his hand. He feels his heart sink as he spots Estinien’s trademark frown and frigid look trained on Laurentinus. _Oh, no._

“How obtuse of me to not realize having Aymeric present saved my life,” Estinien drones on. “What an oversight by me. Aymeric, please accept my deepest and heartfelt apologies, and allow me to thank you profusely for your services so that I might seize the glory and praise from your clutches. Your contribution is duly acknowledged.”

“He’s kidding,” Aymeric says weakly as he turns to Laurentinus, who is glaring. “He’s thanked me already.”

Laurentinus snorts. “Then he’s not as socially inept as I thought. There’s _that_ , at least.”

Estinien’s frown deepens. Without prompt, he sits on Aymeric’s other side.

 _What are you doing?_ Aymeric widens his eyes and glares at him. Estinien coolly meets his look, then leans past him.

“You think so little of me, Tiefenthaler,” Estinien says placidly. “Yet your relevance to the matter escapes me. Tell me, what is your experience with dragons insofar?”

 _By the Fury,_ Aymeric feels himself shrink. He knees Estinien under the table, but Estinien ignores him.

Laurentinus makes a noise akin to a snarl. “Of course!” he says and throws up a hand. “One encounter and you think yourself a resident expert! You think you’re the only one that’s stared down a dragon?”

“Of course not,” says Estinien. “But what is _your_ experience with dragons?”

Laurentinus crosses his arms and scowls. “The Foundation is always the first to be sieged under dragon attacks. My family and I have weathered many such attacks for generations. I’ve been familiar with a dragon’s scream since I was a babe.”

“So no direct combat.”

Laurentinus slams a fist down on the table. Plates and cups rattle, and the light murmur of conversation hushes as the crowd turns to stare. “By the Fury, are you _trying_ to be this condescending? I am beginning to think you actually _want_ to piss off every individual you come across!”

“I’m simply trying to gauge how much authority you have on combating dragons and the proper behavior around doing so before I tell you _exactly_ how little your opinion means to me.”

“ _A word,_ ” Aymeric seizes Estinien’s arm and drags him up. For a second, Aymeric fears Estinien might refuse—Estinien holds Laurentinus’ glare for a hairsbreadth longer—but eventually he steps away from the table and allows Aymeric to drag him out of the dining hall.

“What was _that_?” Aymeric demands as soon as they find a quiet corner.

“What was what?”

“ _Please._ ”

Estinien snorts and crosses his arms.

“Laurentinus is a good man,” Aymeric presses, “and I cannot fathom for _what_ you stand to gain to antagonize him and to do so publicly! You are aware of your reputation, aren’t you?”

“The one where I am an arrogant, conceited, uncooperative idiot that will soon get what’s coming to him, and all others will look on and laugh?”

Aymeric’s jaw jumps at Estinien’s bored expression. “Yes, that is the one.”

“What of it?”

Aymeric holds his face in his hands. By the Fury, even the haughtiest nobles do not aggravate him so. “To what end,” he finally says when he can manage a level tone, “did you pick a fight with a friend of mine?”

Estinien presses his lips together. Aymeric makes a frustrated sound and rubs his temple. “Estinien, I’d prefer it if we’re friends rather than enemies, but if you’re going to _insist_ on disrespecting my other comrades and not doing me the dignity of telling me _why_ , then—”

“It was inappropriate,” Estinien cuts him off. The grips on his own upper arms seem to tighten, but he continues, “You are right, it was childish of me. I apologize.”

Aymeric stares, stunned. He’s not sure if he actually expected Estinien to apologize. “It’s not me you should be apologizing to.”

Estinien makes a disgusted sound. Aymeric sighs.

“I’ve never seen you go out of your way to argue with someone like that. Is something wrong?” Perhaps the knighthood fell through, Aymeric reflects.

“Wrong? No. I simply dislike him.”

“Dislike him? _Laurentinus?_ ” Aymeric blinks rapidly, trying to think of a single other person that dislikes Laurentinus—besides highborn on principle, but Estinien is not highborn. “Whatever for?”

“We have argued in the past.”

 _Oh._ Laurentinus, like many other squires, has to work with Estinien many a time on patrols or exercises on rotation. Now that he thinks about it, Aymeric never hears Laurentinus complain about anything _other_ than Estinien for at least a week after each time he does.

“The fact that you have the patience for him astounds me.”

“He would say the same thing about you,” Aymeric points out with a weary smile.

Estinien’s nostrils flare. “I will apologize to him.”

“Thank you.”

“Just—” Estinien shuts his eyes and huffs. “The implication that I would not recognize your part in our success was… _irritating_.” He opens his eyes again. “I have heard all sorts of nonsense today—of how I am taking all the credit, the latter of which would not trouble me, but else that in fact you had no role at all and are instead riding my coattails. The implication that I would have some similar opinion—that I would not acknowledge your contributions and you are undeserving and I would take all the credit like some greedy…” Estinein shakes his head as he trails off. “Tiefenthaler’s remarks were the first of many, and not even the harshest. He was simply…convenient.” He sighs. “But, as you say, he is your friend, and in disrespecting him, I have disrespected you. So I must ask your forgiveness, as well.”

“You have it,” Aymeric clasps Estinien’s shoulder. “Just…don’t do that again. You might not think much of him, but Laurentinus _is_ a force to be reckoned with if you push him too hard.”

Estinien glances at Aymeric’s hand momentarily—hastily, Aymeric removes it from his shoulder—before considering Aymeric, himself. “ _You_ don’t seem troubled to hear what others are saying about you.” Estinien looks Aymeric over. “Or perhaps you are better than me at hiding it.”

Aymeric shrugs uncomfortably. “It is not unusual for me, I suppose.”

“Is that so.” Estinien’s expression is unreadable—far from judgmental—but Aymeric feels himself pull away, regardless. Is it possible Estinien’s heard all the rumors about Aymeric? _Of course he has. Who hasn’t?_

“Well, if that’s all, I will take my leave. Oh, and if you hear anything from Bisset before I do, please let me know,” Aymeric offers an awkward smile.

“Oh,” Estinien blinks, for once acting surprised—and at his own forgetfulness, no less. “Yes, actually, that was why I sought you out. Bisset says the knighting ceremony will take place at the end of the week. He said we should make note of family, if we wish, to attend.”

Aymeric swallows but maintains his smile. “Then I will see you then,” he nods. He takes off down the hall before Estinien can reply, leaving him alone.


End file.
